MEMOIR

Nonni’s Pizza Fritte

Perfection in each bite

I immediately recognized the aroma of yeasty dough frying as I walked up the driveway after school. Mom was working late, Dad was at the hunting club, and my brother was playing ball with some friends so it was a good time to visit Nonni. Today she was making pizza fritte.

Italian pizza fritte, also known as zeppole, is a light, airy fried dough served with either powdered sugar or granulated sugar sprinkled on top. Often made during times of celebration, the smell of these frying is guaranteed to tempt anyone.

“Mangia,” she said as she handed me my first piece of pizza fritte. I took the sugar bowl and carefully poured a ring on my plate and began to dip and bite. Ahhhh, delicious airy dough.

In years since, I have tasted many types of fried dough but none as light and delicious as Nonni’s.

“You gonna maka these yourself one a day. I teach a you,” she said as she handed me the large mixing bowl.

I looked at her in complete disbelief. We had tried to bake together before and it didn’t go so well.

I would stand by her side and hand her eggs, flour, water, salt, and whatever she needed. She would pour and mix, no measuring involved. The recipes, if you call them that, would change every time.

She would crack one egg after another until she was satisfied. Sometimes it was three eggs; another time it was five. Flour was even less quantifiable. She would take a small soup bowl and dip it into the large bag of flour, taking whatever she thought was the right amount.

Once my mom and I tried to intercept the ingredients and measure them. She would only laugh at us. It was futile. Each time she made them, the “recipe” changed.

Her small arthritic hands worked the dough and she would pause to add more flour or more water, a little at a time.

“Oooo fa! You toucha the dough. See? Like this,” she would say as she would roll a small portion of the dough between her thumb and forefinger. She would then stretch her fingers apart to see if there was enough stretch from the gluten.

When the consistency was right, she would take a fistful of dough and gently place it in the hot oil. The oil would sizzle as the pizza fritte would puff up and turn a light golden brown. One by one she made these delightful treats.

Like most fried foods, these are best fresh out of the oil. I was delighted to be her taste tester and adept cleaner upper.

I squirted liquid Ivory soap into the wash basin and began the clean up as she picked up her feet for a break.

My grandmother was not very demonstrative when it came to affection. Most people would call her harsh and rough. If she cared for you, she fed you. That was the way she showed her love. And if you refused, she cajoled until you conceded and started to eat something. Those who knew her, knew enough to visit her when they were hungry.

Though I am more emotionally demonstrative than she, I, too, am a feeder. There is nothing that makes me happier than cooking for those I love.

Preparing a meal for loved ones is a prayer of sorts for me. When I am mindful, I think of each person who will be sharing the meal and use my spiritual imagination to infuse the meal with affection and blessing.

For me, cooking is an act of gratitude. I admire the colors and shapes of foods. I am taken by appetizing aromas of herbs and spices. I am captivated by the process from start to finish.

The slower the prep, the more intentional it becomes for me. There is something wonderfully gratifying about feeding those we love. It is a concrete expression of emotions that are difficult to express with words.

I have never mastered the art of baking with no recipe. I still cannot dip a bowl into flour discerning how much or how little to use. I rely on a recipe for guidance.

But I have felt what is in my heart transfer through my hands to the food I am preparing. Like Nonni, I am a feeder, too, one who clearly needs to learn how to make pizza fritte.

I can still remember the first bite into that cloud of deliciousness. A concrete reminder that life is good.